


how waller stole christmas

by kalesmay



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Suicide Squad (2016), Suicide Squad (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 04:37:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalesmay/pseuds/kalesmay
Summary: All Harley wanted was a holiday party for the Squad. It doesn’t go as planned. Then again, with the Squad, what does?





	how waller stole christmas

**Author's Note:**

> this was part of a christmas trade w my friend who drew some art for me, im on tumblr @secret6

Harley loves the holiday season. Hanukkah, Christmas, sweaters, she adores it _all_. At the present, she’s wearing a blinding grin and a black and red sweater, adorned with glitter and a dreidel. Floyd, wearing the green, light-up sweater she bought him, was scowling with all the force he could, mustache downturned. “Cheer up, Scrooge,” She admonishes, “Ya gonna get wrinkles!”

“Good.”

“Aw, c’mon, is it _that_ bad?” She knew Floyd didn’t really care for Christmas, especially since he wasn’t spending it with Zoe, but Harley was trying her best to make the holiday memorable. Usually, memorable for her involved a couple explosions and a dead body, but her options were kinda limited.

Floyd sighs, scratching his chin. “I just dunno why you’re makin’ me do this.”

“Holiday cheer! Christmas spirit! Hanukkah...vibes! Would a gun make this better for ya?” Floyd nods, miming shooting himself in the head. Harley smacks his hand away. “C’mon, Floydie, let’s find some mistletoe!” He perks up a little at that, and allows himself to be dragged to the door of the cafeteria, where Harley begged Flag into bullying Waller into allowing her to hang a sprig of mistletoe. She’s surprised Waller allowed any of this, but Harley had convinced the Squad to refuse to go on missions if they didn’t get a Chrismukkah party, and as much of a hard-ass as Waller is, she’s tired, and doesn’t feel like filing the paperwork that blowing the nanobombs would cause. So, holiday party! — inasmuch as you can call a handful of convicts drinking eggnog in the prison cafeteria a _party_. Still, it was something.

Giggling, she presses a kiss to Floyd’s cheek, leaving a smack of red lipstick on top of the tan skin and stubble. She plants another one on the corner of his mouth, laughing again at the mark it leaves behind. He narrows his eyes at her, the hand Harley wasn’t holding coming up to wipe at his cheek. The red makeup smears across his face, turning his fingertips the color of one of candy canes piled on the table.

“Har _ley_ —!” He groans, but he’s kind of smiling as he wipes his fingers on Harley’s own face. She grins cheekily at him, leaning into his chest. The wires of the Christmas lights on his sweater feel funny, and she pushes the **On/Off** button absently. “Having fun?”

Harley pinches his side in response, searching the room for someone else to spread cheer to. Katana and Flag are sitting, stoic, at one of the tables, either too removed from the holiday or too invested in their jobs to celebrate. Flag does wave at them, though, when he catches her eye. She waves back enthusiastically, with her and Floyd’s linked hands. Not having to hide her and Floyd’s relationship was nice; they’d tried, but it had been pointless — nothing happens in Belle Reve that Waller doesn’t know about. She hadn’t even minded that much. Harley thinks she likes the extra leverage. Thinking about Floyd makes her feel warm and fuzzy.

When she first met Floyd, she thought he was rude, abrasive, his mustache was stupid, and his breath smelled overwhelmingly like spearmint and nicotine. He had leered at her, mask pulled up over his face so he could smoke, and said, “Y’know, sweetheart, you could do a _lot_ better.” His dark eyes flicked towards Joker, who was shouting at some henchman for looking directly at him. Floyd had been hired as protection, rewarded handsomely for keeping people away from Joker’s hideout while he worked on another scheme that only made sense to him. Gotham’s favorite armsman and security guard, he was neutral in most turf wars. Picking sides didn’t pay the bills, he told her. She frowned at the implication.

“Can it, Deadhead. Mistah J is _perfect_ for me!” Back then, her entire world had revolved around that damn clown. She hadn’t realized yet that you don’t look at people you love the way Joker had looked at her.

He rolled his eyes, blowing a smoke ring. “Sure thing, Quinn. Holler if you need me.” And he strolled off, heavy boots thudding against the floor. Floyd tossed his cigarette over his shoulder. Harley watched him go, something like freedom stirring in her chest as his glowing cigarette butt floated to the ground.

Surface level, Floyd didn’t change. He smokes, he curses, he can’t stand Digger Harkness. Beneath that, he smokes to die and shoots to kill and doesn’t take a single step without thinking about how it might affect his daughter. He still really hates Digger, though. Harley doesn’t really blame him. She doesn’t know anyone who does like him, except for maybe Snart. The Aussie just isn’t a likable guy.

The man himself was currently on the opposite end of the room, Christmas lights tangled up around one leg as he tries to fashion a boomerang with mistletoe hanging from it. No doubt, he was gonna try to throw it over Katana’s head, and she was gonna try to castrate him for it. Maybe Floyd could have fun today after all.

“Floyd! The menorah’s out!” Harley starts bouncing on her feet, jingling the bells she’d stuck there, pointing at the guard bringing it in with excitement. Floyd pushed his hands down on her shoulders, stopping the movement. She was too busy marveling over being able to celebrate an _almost_ proper Hanukkah to care. Even though Waller told her she couldn’t actually light any of the candles, the fact that it was there at all was enough. Once again, she tugs Floyd to the center of the room, pulling him down into a seat beside her, right in front of the menorah.

June and Waylon were sitting a table down, holding hands and laughing at something Waylon said. Harley would never admit it, but they might be cuter than her and Floyd. Mostly, she was just happy to see Waylon getting the happy ending she always knew he deserved. June was good for him, something solid to hold on to. Sometimes, Harley sees the way they look at each other, wonders if she and Floyd look at each other like that. She hopes so. She hopes Floyd knows how much she loves him. He probably doesn’t. Harley gets the desire to tell him, to show him.

“Hey, Floyd?”

He hums, glancing up from where he was cleaning under his nails. Even in prison, they were always neatly trimmed, rarely dirty. She’s kind of jealous. His eyes, rich brown, meet her own. “Yes?”

Harley got a degree in knowing about the human mind and emotions and talking about it, made a profession of it before she became Harley Quinn, but for some reason, she just can’t get the words out the way she wants to. She settles for, “Ya know I love ya, right?”

Floyd raises an eyebrow. “Sure, but where’d this come from?”

She shakes her head. “Just been thinkin’. I do love ya, Floyd. I’m real happy to have ya.” It isn’t nearly sufficient, doesn’t even scratch the surface of what she wants to say, how nothing on the planet could make her stop loving him — not Waller, not the Joker, not Superman himself — but Floyd understands, just like he always does.

A smile curls at the edge of his mouth, the one with the smeared lipstick on it. “You too, dollface. Happy Hanukkah, Harl.” She nestlesinto his shoulder and pretends this isn’t temporary, that she can sit here with her friends and her boyfriend forever, surrounded by Christmas lights and a menorah, that she won’t be cheating death this time tomorrow. It’s an awful nice fantasy.

With the telltale sound that accompanies a barefoot guy walking across tile floors, Chato slides into a seat on the opposite side of Harley, winking and lighting his index finger aflame, pointing with the other hand surreptitiously at the menorah. Harley squeals. He presses the lit finger against his lips in the universal shh motion, extinguishing the little blaze. She mimes zipping her lips shut. Even though they’re a bunch of jerk criminals, she kind of loves her friends. Nothing binds a group together quite like prison and bombs in their necks!

Eventually, Boomer gets tired of bothering Katana and dodging subsequent sword swings and joins them at the table, talking too loud and too much about all the wrong things. It’s ok, though, Harley thinks it’s part of his charm. The tension growing in Floyd’s shoulders says he thinks otherwise.

“Didn’t know you were Jewish, Harley,” Boomer says, accent erasing all the R sounds. “Kinda funny, innit?”

Stiffening, Floyd grinds out, “What’s so _funny_ about it, you Outback jackass?”

Digger raises his reddish eyebrows, picking his teeth with the edge of a boomerang. “Relax, Lawton. Jus’ think it’s funny I’ve known her for so long and didn’t know. What would you have done about it anyway?” And there it is, that Alpha Male urge to pick a fight, that inability to let things rest. Harley doesn’t even know why the hell they hate each other so much, and they’ve probably forgotten, too. Sometimes, she really misses Selina and Pam. They might not always get along, but they’re not like _this_.

“C’mon, _amigos_ —“ Chato says, cautiously. Floyd cuts him off.

“For once, can it with the hippie shit, Santana! Harkness, you’re damn lucky I promised Harley I wouldn’t beat you senseless at her party. Don’t fuckin’ try me tomorrow.”

Flag walks up just as Digger starts rising to lean in Floyd’s face, who’s already wound and ready to spring. “There a problem here, convicts?”

  
Boomerang says “Not at all,” right as Floyd grumbles, “Yes.” Flag grits his teeth. Poor Rick, he’s probably real tired of babysitting the government’s dirty little secret. Too bad he has about as much of a choice as they do.

“Good, because Waller wants you in the meeting room. Best if you come quietly.” Flag smiles tightly. Harley whines, pathetically.

“The meeting room? What about my party?” She turns the pouting to 10. She really didn’t want to go on a mission right now. Ever, really, but especially right now.

“Missions come first, Quinn. You got your party. Now up and at ‘em.”

He turns on the heel of his military issue boot, waiting ramrod straight by the door. The Squad makes noises of discontent, but with a final longing look at her menorah, Harley trudges towards the meeting room, the rest of them trailing behind.

•••

In the meeting room, which always reminds Harley of her classrooms in college, Amanda Waller stands beside a desk, tapping a large file against the surface of it impatiently. The Squad files in, taking their seats. Waylon accidentally crushes one; June pats his arm consolingly.

“This had better be good, Waller.” Floyd sprawls his legs out, taking up as much space as possible. Harley sits as close as she can; he always makes the room. She thinks it’s kind of cute that he’s mad on Harley’s behalf, but it doesn’t take much to piss Floyd off, and Waller’s made it her business to know all his buttons.

Amanda gives him a derisive look. “Nice lipstick, convict.” Floyd doesn’t reply. “Task Force X has a mission. A government metahuman project has gone rogue. Your job is to contain and incapacitate the threat, by any means necessary. Questions?”

Boomer, as always, was the first to speak up. “Yeah! Why the hell is this _our_ bloody problem?”

“Because I said so. Anything else?”

“What kind of metahumans, Waller. I ain’t goin’ in blind again.”

Waller turns to Floyd, opening the file and flicking through it. “Radioactive energy, shapeshifting, pyrokinesis. Nothing you haven’t seen before. Suit up, we’re leaving the airstrip in 20.” She stands by the door as they walk out, nodding to Katana and Flag and regarding the rest with that cool detachment that only she can pull off.

Harley follows Floyd down the hallway, index finger hooked in his. She’s always had a thing for Floyd’s hands. What can she say? They’re large and rough and warm, the smell of gunpowder permanently settled in the grooves of his fingers that always lingers on her own. There’s something about Floyd, the lines around his eyes or the build of his shoulders, but especially the spread of his hand on her lower back, that makes her feel safe in a way she’s never known before. He’s almost a foot taller than her, and his hands absolutely envelop hers in a way that makes Harley feel more secure than anything she’s ever felt. In a life like Harley’s, spent on the run from the law and your ex and sometimes your friends, security and stability aren’t exactly common, but when she and Floyd lock eyes, just for a second, even among wreckage and rubble, she feels it. He’s solid and earthy, like a really big, handsome rock, with moss growing on it where his mustache is. She laughs out loud at the image.

“What’s so funny?” Floyd asks, eyes like fresh dirt (she’s really starting to wear out the whole earth metaphor, but it’s funny) glancing at her over his shoulder. A guard mutters about her being crazy. Floyd shoulder-checks him. Harley doesn’t think she’s all that nuts; everything makes sense in her head, just not out of it, like the Rock-Floyd joke. She decides it wouldn’t be as funny if she told him, so she shakes her head. He goes with it, continuing on to the large room where they have the Squad suit up.

It’s big, bigger than their cells -- which doesn’t take much -- but smaller than the cafeteria, just large enough for a handful of criminals to get into their outfits and be handed their weapons under close surveillance by the guards. Harley’s never been one for embarrassment, the one thing that serves her well in prison. Shame doesn’t last in a place like Belle Reve. They strip out of their prison jumpsuits, with the practiced ease of almost friends doing something in the company of each other, and a dozen prison guards. The stony faced guards hand them their suits, piece by piece, carefully cleaned and examined prior to this. Harley’s gotta hand it to the guards here, and to Waller: they’re nothing if not thorough. She wiggles into her pants, making sure to whistle and wink at Floyd as she bent over to give him a shot of her ass disappearing into her Kevlar leggings. He raises his eyebrows, pulling his wrist cuffs on with distracted jerks of his hand. The guard nearest Harley clears his throat, and she focuses on strapping her knee-pads on, still smiling to herself. She can hear Floyd’s amused huff, can picture the exact fond look on his face. Harley knows that look is going to get him killed, one day, but she loves it anyway.

The room leads straight out to the air strip, the six of them herded onto the plane by Katana and Flag. The planes aren’t very big, and Harley finds herself mostly in Floyd’s lap. Okay, so maybe it’s not _that_ small, but sue her. He’s a helluva lot more comfortable than the metal benches. It’s not a long plane ride, not with how fast these planes go. Floyd spends most of it checking his wrist magnums, and Harley spends it looking out the window. She’s always liked being this high up, above all the little ant people that she’s usually below. Oh well, the curse of being 5’3. It doesn’t bother her, not when it’s the perfect height for Floyd to rest his chin on her head. She’s also the perfect height to kick out people’s knees.

Flag gives them a secondary mission briefing, doling out specific roles and laying out plans. He also hands out the earpiece that put them in direct contact with the Wall, to ensure their mission goes as smooth as possible. Granted, that’s not very smooth with the Squad, but Waller usually keeps them from slipping into all-out disaster zone.

Floyd and Boomer are given special energy dampening bullets and boomerangs, meant to help weaken the radioactive meta, and Chato is assigned to pyrokinetic detail. The idea of two fire metas fighting seems counterintuitive to Harley, and she mentions it to Flag.

“Dontcha think fighting fire with fire _might_ be a bad idea?”

“Who else is better equipped? He’s the only one who won’t burn to death.”

“Well, yeah, but whaddaya think all that fire is gonna do? Can’t June do somethin’ to extinguish it?”

“We’ll see when we get there. Everyone get your chutes ready.”

Floyd pats Harley’s thigh, consoling. She hates being dismissed. Contrary to popular belief, she isn’t stupid. Unconventional, zany, occasionally unhinged, maybe, but she’s smart and she knows it. Waller knows it, too. That’s why she pretends Harley isn’t. Flag, Harley doesn’t think, isn’t capable of the level of insidious higher thinking Waller is, and just isn’t used to someone who ranks lower than he does questioning him. Sometimes, though, it’s better to be underestimated.

Their plane begins its descent, lowering just enough that they can jump out, deploying their parachutes and aiming for their target location. It’s hard to miss, billowing smoke and pulsing with energy. Harley whoops as her chute gets blown topsy turvy, and Floyd swings out an arm to grab her, careful not to disturb his own. They float to the ground, ducking and rolling, Floyd’s body absorbing most of the impact. Everyone else but Boomer and Waylon (who looks like he might lose his eggnog) land gracefully, and they move forward as a unit, keeping an eye out for any rogue metas.

Fortunately, or probably _un_ fortunately for them, the metas find them. The squad splits up: Flag, Digger, Floyd, and Chato taking the back entrance, Harley, Waylon, Katana, and June going in through the front. Not being within eye or earshot of Floyd makes her anxious, but it’s the mission. She deals.

As soon as they walk in the building, Harley wielding her mallet, slightly ducked behind Waylon, Flag appears out from a hallway to their left, walking stiffly and looking ominous in the light of the flickering exit sign. Katana’s hand tenses around her sword. Waylon’s reptilian nostrils flare, and June’s hair whips around her head a little faster.

“There you all are. Follow me, you’re needed this way.” Flag regards them with a weird look. Harley swallows down sour apprehension.

There’s no way Flag got up to the front of the lab that quick. Flag doesn’t walk like that, either; less stick-up-the-ass, more military. Harley remembers Waller’s words. A shapeshifter.

She catches Katana’s wary eye, nodding. Harley bends down to tie her boot, tapping her comm lightly. “Hey, Wall?” She whispers. “You got eyes on Flag?”

“On the other end of the building, Quinn, where he’s supposed to be.”

“Got it.” Straightening up, she hefts her mallet. “Uh, guys? That ain’t Flag!”

They spring into action, Harley swinging her mallet at Fake Flag’s Head. It makes impact with an exciting thunk, the ripples of the skin widening, and Flag’s face melts away like it was never there at all, morphing into a grotesque, faceless blob. “Take that, fake Flag!”

Real Flag’s voice crackles to life on her comm. “Fake _what_? Harley, report.”

She dodges a doughy fist and aims her mallet again. “Shapeshifter fella. ‘S’all under control, don’t worry!”

The single lab-grown meta isn’t a match for the four of them, and they leave him in the hallway, a gross, lumpy mess. Katana takes point, following the sound of gunshots and shouting. Harley trails behind her, and Waylon brings up the rear, June floating next to him. A great burst of flame cuts in front of Harley, nearly searing off her eyebrows. Katana leaps out of its way, the wall of fire cutting her off from the rest. Following the flames is Chato, flying backwards as the pyro chick hurls another fireball. With a roar, Chato pushes back, giving himself space to stand up.

“Get out of here!” Chato instructs, the tattoos on his skin glowing faintly.

“He’s gonna blow! Everybody move!” Harley shouts, sprinting as fast as she can down the hallway, pulling Katana with her. “June, can you help him?”

The Enchantress scoffs at her, long red curls swirling around in her faint green aura. “Mortal fire cannot hurt me. Fear not, pathetic human. I can save our teammate.” To Waylon, she says, “stay safe, my reptilian love.” Harley coos. June surrounds herself with emerald energy, shielding herself from the flames. “Run! _Now_ , Santana!”

The rest of them rush down the hall, as Chato goes nuclear and June aims a vivid beam at the meta. The force of the explosion makes them all stumble. The comms come to life again.

“What was that?” Flag barks.

“June and Chato are taking out the pyrokinetic.”

“Harley! Are you ok?” Floyd sounds worried, as he fires off audible rounds.

“Fine, Floydie. Focus on containing that radioactivity. We’re good here, headin’ yer way.”

“Oi, someone tell them to get a room!”

“Shut the hell up, Kangaroo Jack.”

•••

When Harley’s group makes it to the central lab, where Flag, Boomer, and Floyd are fighting the radioactive meta, she locks eyes with Floyd and he throws her a wink, firing off a few rounds at the meta. “Nice of y’all to make it,” Flag calls, ducking a blast of energy. “Now help us kill this damn thing!”

Killing, Harley was good at. Unfortunately, Waller starts talking in her ear. “All the scientists evacuated, but they left their equipment behind. Down the hall and to your left, there’s a room with notes on how to contain that damn thing.”

She rolls over her shoulder, dodging a blast, and makes a face, running towards the exit. “You know I’m a shrink, not a scientist, right?”

Waller sighs, aggravated. “Yes, Quinn. I know. But you’re the only one who might know how to make sense of it.”

“What we need is that League guy, Captain Atom.”

“Maybe so, but I’m not calling in a favor with the Justice League. It’s in your hands,Quinn. Don’t fuck it up.” The comm went dead.

“Oh jeez,” Harley mutters, following Waller’s instructions to the records room. “I hate this job.” The metas didn’t have names, just numbers and letters and dated experiments. Harley had no clue which one she was supposed to be looking for. She took a wild guess on the file with the radioactivity stamp on the front, and crows. “Got it! Waller? It says there’s weak points in the eyes and mouth, hittin’ the body won’t do nothin’ but make it stronger. There’s also a cell somewhere in here that acts like a containment chamber.”

“Excellent, Quinn. Task Force, did you hear that?”

“Roger, ma’am. Flag out.”

Harley giggles at his military shtick. Gotta love Flag. She dashes back out to join her team, only Harley Quinn is already there. She freezes. The other Harley swings a medical examination table at the metahuman. No one notices her. No one, except Floyd.

“Harley?”

The fake Harley turns to him. Harley pleads with her eyes, prays that Floyd will recognize her.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Shapeshifter! We thought we took care of it,” Katana snarls, deflecting another energy blast. There’s too much going on to safely split their attentions. “But which Harley is real?”

Without looking away from Harley, Floyd lifts his arm and fires a single shot into the forehead of fake Harley. “I know my Harley.”

Warmth blooms in her chest, the fact that there’s something beyond just what she looks like that makes her who she is, that Floyd can see whatever it is with a glance. With her mallet, she makes sure the shapeshifter can’t get back up, for real this time. With a soft smile at Floyd, she joins the fray, smacking the metahuman with her mallet into the line of Digger’s boomerangs. Maybe this mission wasn’t so bad.

And then, it all starts to go to shit.

•••

If Harley kept a record of these things, she would place this particular mission in her top 10 least favorite. It had been easy, almost fun, until she made it back to the larger lab area where the remaining squad members were fighting a very large, very radioactive man who batted each energy dampening boomerang away like it was nothing. But that wasn’t even the worst part! The worst part wasn’t even when Flag got knocked out cold, or when Boomer used the last of the energy dampeners (and promptly got knocked out cold). It wasn’t even when they heard June shriek, and Waylon left them to tend to her, or when the comms went offline. The worst part is right now, when Harley realizes they’re going to die.

She keeps an eye on Floyd, as he ducks and jumps and rolls, firing off rounds. The meta just gets angrier. “Hey, Chernobyl! Eat this!” Floyd shoots a bullet directly into the meta’s mouth, making it splutter and dim. He grins, triumphant. It slides from his face like turpentine when he sees the meta turn towards Harley. She freezes. Katana lunges at it with a growl, but she gets flung to the side like a ragdoll. “ _No_!”

Before she can think, there’s a column of pure radioactive energy heading straight for her, and she can’t move. Floyd does it for her.

Running faster than she’s ever seen him run, he barrels into her, knocking her into the air and out of the way. She lands hard on her shoulder, and looks up just in time to see Floyd get hit square in the chest with the energy meant for her. Harley screams so loud she tastes blood. With Floyd down for the count, she feels something in her chest loosen. The stability he gives her is gone. Right now, all that’s left is anger and fear and the Harley she pretends she left behind in Gotham, with a green haired clown.

The meta turns to her. Big mistake. She grabs the gun tucked in her waistband and shoots. She’s not the marksman Floyd is, but she can’t afford to miss, not now. Each of her shots pierce the eyes, mouth, a lucky one through the ear. Eventually, her empty chamber clicks uselessly. With a cry, she throws her pistol at his head. It melts.

To her left, Katana stirs awake. “Tatsu! Do you know where the containment cell is?” Katana nods her head, the hand not pressed to her bleeding forehead reaching for her sword.

“It’s just down the hall. Herd him there.”

“Oh, that would’ve been great to know, like five minutes ago! Jeez.”

Katana scowls at her. “I was unconscious. Now hurry up.”

Floyd is still slumped over, sprawled ungainly against a wall. His suit is ruined, chest a mess of chemical burns and blood. He’s too far away for Harley to see if it’s moving. She doesn’t have time to check.

She pushes past him, mallet swinging. Katana helps, sword slicing through raw energy without melting. Eventually, the meta is pushed from the room, and they herd it down the hallway.

“Go to him. I can do this.”

Harley doesn’t need to be told twice. She trips over herself in her haste, dropping her mallet and running to Floyd. By now, other members of the Squad have started waking. She doesn’t give a single damn about any of them. Sweat and blood drip down her face, into her eyes, and she falls to her knees beside Floyd. He looks smaller like this, bloodstained and quiet, no snide remark or smoking gun to make him Deadshot. Right now, he’s just Floyd, and he’s barely hanging on.

She can’t carry him alone, but she refuses to leave him. Harley puts his head in her lap, counting his shallow breaths until Katana returns and reorganizes them. Harley assumes the metahuman was dealt with. She doesn’t care all that much. Even Chato and Waylon make it back, June behind them, and they converge around Harley.

“Someone,” she says, voice small, “help me with him. Please.” Waylon lifts Floyd into his arms like he weighs nothing, and Flag helps Harley to her feet.

On the plane, Harley doesn’t speak. She just brushes the dark hair out of Floyd’s face and thinks about how the blast was meant for her. The moment replays over and over in her mind. She wonders if Floyd expected to die, if this was supposed to be his big bang. Harley doesn’t think she’s worth it. She thinks about Michelle, and Zoe. Floyd can’t die for her, not when he has family still out there who would miss him. Harley isn’t the only one who loves him.

Back at Belle Reve, Floyd is taken away almost immediately, carted off to the infirmary and into a private section. The rest of them get examined and cleaned, carefully treated for any residual radioactive energy. Harley barely notices. She allows herself to be taken back to her cell without a fight.

She doesn’t sleep that night; she never hears Floyd returned to his cell.

•••

In the morning, she’s still staring at the ceiling when her cell door opens. Amanda Waller regards Harley curiously. “Good morning, Quinn. Sleep well?”

“Like a baby.”

“Do you want to owe me?”

“Don’t I already?” Harley wasn’t in the mood for mind games. That included whatever Waller was playing at.

“Fair point. Do you want to go see Deadshot?” Waller asks. Harley narrows her eyes. This has to be a trick. “No games, Quinn. I know you love him, and I know he got hurt protecting you. It’s eating you up inside, isn’t it? You know one day he’s going to die saving you, and you’re going to have to live with it.” Harley says nothing. “But you’re too selfish to leave him, aren’t you? I wonder if he feels the same.”

“What do you want, Waller?” Harley spits. She hates having her head rummaged around in.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Give Deadshot my regards, would you?”

She turns on her heel and disappears, replaced by two guards who lead her to the infirmary. Inside it, a nurse straightens up over Floyd’s bed, exposing his face to Harley. He’s definitely looked better; his lip is busted and there’s a gash along his right cheek. His entire left side is red with burns. That’s only what she can see. Her chest pangs. He’s beautiful, even like this, all selfless bravery and reckless self endangerment.

One dark eye blinks awake. “Sorry ‘bout ruinin’ your party. Know it was s’pposed to be yer day.” All his words are slurred, his drawl a little stronger. Harley picks up the hand that isn’t covered in wounds.

“I don’t give a damn about my stupid party, Floydie. I’m just glad you’re alright.” She squeezes his hand. “Sorry I went an’ got you hurt.”

Floyd rolls his good eye. “I’d do it again, dollface. Can’t help it. Now, you gonna kiss me or what?” He manages a smile, straight white teeth showing between his parted lips. Harley’s fingers close around the sprig of mistletoe in her pocket, and she dangles it over Floyd’s head.

“I just might, cowboy.” 


End file.
